My husband died, IRL.

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything personal. Like most things without a deadline, I planned to get around to it. I wrote my last blog at the end of September 2019 thinking the worst was behind me and that I needed to start dealing with the things that had been weighing me down. I had no idea that 2020 was around the corner and that life was about to get really f’d up for everyone.

Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to start the blog back up right now, but when I saw my last post was dated September 29, 2019, I heard that deep Robby voice in my head say, “Well, darling, looks like you are writing a blog today.”

Frustrated, I knew I had to. The date? Exactly one year before my husband Robby died. If you had told me that day that I had one year left with my love, I’m not sure what I would have thought. Part of me would have believed it because his health had been up and down, but a much bigger part of me would not have been able to wrap my brain around what that would actually mean in real life—In Real Life.

In Real Life has been harder for me to imagine than the thought that someone will die someday. If you’re not familiar with IRL, you’ve probably seen it in a text or meme or somewhere in a digital space; it has its own meaning--to refer to social interaction in the physical world rather than video games or other online contexts. For example, some of you reading my blog have never met me IRL.

I think we all try to imagine what our life will be like if something happens and we find our reality is never quite what we imagined. Several years ago, I told my therapist I was tired of being Robby’s caretaker and that I didn’t want to do it for the rest of my life. I had never said that out loud to anyone. I was embarrassed I felt that way. I thought she would just nod and listen, but she cut me off and said I wouldn’t have to because he would die before me. Total sucker punch.  

After my therapy session, I tried to imagine what that day would be like—the day where it was just me and no Robby. I couldn’t really. It didn’t seem possible. I just imagined he would get healthier and we would grow old together.

Now that it is my real life, it’s hard for me to remember what I thought life would be without him during those few minutes where I would allow myself to even slightly believe there would somehow be a day where I was here and he wasn’t.

I thought I would be older. The house would be cleaner. Friends would be calling to check in on me and life would just be a little different. I couldn’t imagine how much my life would change on the inside but still look very similar on the outside—you know, IRL.

I didn’t picture myself reaching for my cell every time something happened only to remember he’s not there. I didn’t imagine the paperwork and sterile conversations involved with death. I didn’t think about our kids crying and crying and expecting me to make things OK. I didn’t realize that people in your life just disappear because they don’t know how to handle death and seeing your face makes them sad. I couldn’t imagine I would still talk about him like he’s here. I didn’t know I would be so angry, and I never imagined I would feel so alone.

Nighttime and weekends are terrible for most widows. At first, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Robby and I started our mornings together with coffee at the bar in the kitchen. We planned the day—who was picking up kids, getting dinner, etc. A quick kiss and then we were on our way to work separately. Once work was over for the day, we usually met back up in the same spot at the bar and enjoyed a cocktail and talked about our day, cooked dinner, ate at the table like a family, heard about the kids’ day, cleaned up, watched a little TV, got ready for bed, and went to sleep until the alarm clock told us it was time to do it all over again. Not much changed in our routines during COVID except we were at home together all the time, working from home, and not worrying about finding places to go on the weekend. Our Friday happy hour was at home, but the schedule was still pretty much the same. The stress was high and the uncertainty of life was there, but we kept each other occupied and tried to find our new normal.

It was easy to think those days were a little boring. And in IRL, they were. But in my mind now, they were pretty great. Pretty simple. Pretty easy.

So, now, I have to find the new reality of my days. It’s easy to sit and think about what you believe life will be like one day. Everyone is different. Some people like to paint a beautiful picture in their heads while others assume the worst is yet to come.

The last day Robby was alive was a pretty good day. We started with our coffee and simple chit chat. I went to the office, and he was still teaching virtually from home. Kids were home all day. I returned home to Robby sitting at the bar waiting for me with a glass of wine already poured. He was cooking pasta and had warmed up my homemade meatballs. I don’t remember what we talked about, but he was in a great mood and was talking, talking, talking, like he always did when he was happy. He finally got his hearing aids to work and could hear me clearly for the first time in a long time. He mentioned several times about how he felt good—his low blood pressure had evened out and he believed he was on the mend. He went on to bed around 7:30 like he always did so he could do his dialysis. I came to bed later that night around 9:30 and spilled my cup of water by the bed, making a loud noise and waking him up. He said, “Really?!” and for some reason it made me giggle which made him glare at me with his lips pulled tight—a look I knew well. I said I was sorry. I cleaned it up and went to bed beside him. We both drifted off quickly.

He must have passed not long after that because when I woke up around 11, he was gone. Just like that. Totally gone. No more weird recipe ideas he wanted to try out. No more jokes about how horrible his life had become with me and the kids. No more cocktail hour or morning coffee at the bar. No more crazy ideas about the latest comic book he wanted to write or how he was going to turn the backyard into a parrot-head paradise. No more family movie nights or hearing his latest tale of how the kids had said something funny in the car on the way home. No more deep-bellied laughs and no more Robby hugs.

I think one of the hardest parts about not having Robby IRL is the silence. He was so loud--All The Time--and sometimes we would fight because I would turn off everything in the house to get a little silence and he hated it. He wanted his music on and the TV on in the background. He wanted to talk all the time and he was always making jokes so he could hear you laugh and that would make him laugh—and that laugh is a laugh that you can’t replicate no matter how hard you try. I would get mad and say, “One day, I won’t be here because I’ll be living in a cave where it’s totally quiet and you’ll wonder whatever happened to your wife.” And he would say something funny like, “You know you could never live without your Big Daddy and you'd be back by dinner.” I never would have thought my pretend cave would end up being my own house, IRL.

Sometimes when I’m feeling lonely, I think about my therapist trying to prepare me for a life without this booming presence. It seemed silly and abstract at the time. What I thought it would be like and what happens IRL are not the same. Anyone who has lost somebody they love, knows that to be true. I’m not saying anything you don’t know. I’m saying something I didn’t know.

But when I think about how much I have overcome in my life, I know I can make peace with this new life and this new version of myself. I have no intentions of turning my back on life or holding myself back from what’s next.

It’s easy to daydream about what life should be or how you can make it better somehow but that doesn’t always line up with real life. Real life can be beautiful at times, even when you are just sitting with someone you love drinking a cup of coffee, knowing you only have three minutes until you have to go to work. Life can be tragic at times. Life will end at some point. Life will begin at another. And the reality is life will never just pause so you can catch your breath or re-do the last sentence you just said. You can’t rewind to the spot where you spilled a cup of water late at night, hearing someone’s voice for the last time, and have the chance to say, “I love you.” Life is uncontrollable. Life is constant. And living IRL is sometimes breathtaking and raw and painful, but it’s real, and we have to find a way to handle it somehow.